Looking for Trouble
by Anidori-Kiladra
Summary: Just why was Terry Boot sent to Dumbledore's office during his fourth year, anyway? It might be more complicated than anyone thought. Terry Boot/Draco Malfoy.
1. In Dumbledore's Office

Looking for Trouble

"And did you kill a basilisk with that sword in Dumbledore's office?" demanded Terry Boot. "That's what one of the portraits on the wall told me when I was in there last year…" –_Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_, page 342

A/N: None of it mine. Title from the Remus Lupins song of the same name.

Chapter 1: In Dumbledore's Office

Terry takes a deep breath before knocking on the door before him, a door carved with odd symbols and starbursts. He's told the gargoyle the password (gumdrops) downstairs and now there is nothing between him and Dumbledore—between him and punishment and possible expelling—except this door.

Terry can feel his heat beating rapidly, trying its hardest to rap its way out of his chest. Dumbledore is kind and he may not hold by too many conventions, but surely he will protest to this.

There is no answer. "Professor Dumbledore?" Terry calls, but no sound emenates from behind the closed door.

He pokes his head around the door, then sidles the rest of the way in. His mouth drops open. Terry has been in enough teachers' offices—Flitwick's, Sprout's, and McGonagall's nearly every week, to talk about that extra-credit Transfiguration project he's working on this year—but none of them look anything like _this_.

Everywhere is dark wood and golden light. Tiny silver contraptions thrum when he approaches them, but that's nothing like the wonder Terry feels when he turns around and sees the golden perch swaying slightly, a gigantic red bird asleep on it, its head tucked beneath a wing. It seems to be the source of all the glowing light, or maybe it's just that it gathers all the light to itself.

Terry jumps when he hears a cough behind him and turns again, expecting to see Dumbledore, but there's no one there. Someone harrumphs again, and Terry's eyes fix on a portrait of a grumpy looking wizard slumped in a chair, his full mustache drooping past his chin.

"And just what do you think you're doing, sonny boy?" the portrait asks.

"I—nothing," Terry stutters, "I've been sent to see Dumbledore, and I thought he, he would be here."

"Well, clearly you thought wrong. And you thought you'd look your fill while you were here, did you?" the wizard asks, poking a finger Terry's direction.

"I—yes. Is there something wrong with that?"

The wizard stops short, mouth open and finger still pointing. He looks around at his fellow portraits, but they all appear to be asleep, though a few shrug their shoulders or raise an eyebrow at him.

"Oh, I suppose not," he grumbles, and then changes tack entirely. "Say, did you see this yet?" His finger points to his right, and Terry's eyes follow it to a glass case standing in the corner by Dumbledore's desk, a shining, ruby-encrusted sword inside.

"Bloody hell," he says, unable to stop himself. "Where did Dumbledore get _that_?"

"That Harry Potter pulled it right out of the Sorting Hat, he did," says the mustached wizard, now looking almost proud. "Right before he killed the basilisk with it."

"Bloody hell," Terry says again, and then, "Cool."

The wizard nods eagerly, and has opened his mouth to speak again when the door opens and Dumbledore walks in in a sweep of robes. "Ah, Mr. Boot," he says. "So sorry to have kept you waiting. The house elves put a simply delicious treacle in the staffroom this afternoon, which I had no choice but to stop and sample."

Terry nods, unsure what to say. His mouth has gone dry. Here in Dumbledore's office, among the gadgets and the awe, he has almost forgotten why he is here in the first place.

But as Dumbledore sits behind his desk and folds his hands, it all comes rushing back.

"Do take a seat, Terry," Dumbledore gestures to the chair before his desk. "Now, I understand from Mr. Filch that you and Mr. Malfoy were involved in a…situation?"

Terry tries to swallow, but his throat seems to have folded over on itself. It had been considerably more than a _situation_. He feels his cheeks heat as he says, "Yes, sir. That's true."


	2. First Encounter

Looking for Trouble

Chapter 2: First Encounter

It had all started simply enough. The beginning of Terry Boot's fourth year at Hogwarts had seemed as though it would proceed in pretty much the same way as the last. Except hopefully without all the escaped convicts and dementors roaming the school, of course.

But that idea derailed completely on the first Saturday of term when Draco Malfoy plunked his schoolbag down beside Terry in the library, upsetting his ink pot and crinkling his Charms essay.

"I can't make any sense of these summoning charms," he said petulantly, through with a sort of arrogance too, as though it took real skill not to know what was going on in Charms.

Terry gaped at him. Malfoy had never said a word to him in all their three years together, not even when they'd sat one desk away from each other in Defense Against the Dark Arts last year.

"And what do you expect me to do about it?" he asked.

"You should help me understand them." Malfoy gave him what Terry supposed was a combination between a withering look and a charming smile. "Obviously."

"Well, why me?" Terry asked, still flabbergasted. Come to think of it, he didn't even think Malfoy knew his name. He certainly wouldn't know Malfoy's if the git wasn't always drawing attention to himself, shouting at breakfast or doing impressions for his cronies in the corridors between lessons or flying so fast on the Quidditch pitch that his hair dazzled in the sun and he became a shimmering blur.

"Because you're the smartest in our year," Malfoy answered, and when Terry started to protest, Malfoy amended, "Well, except for that night troll Granger, but I could hardly ask her for help, could I?"

He jerked his head toward Hermione Granger, who sat hunched over a book, hardly visible through her hair.

Terry raised an eyebrow. "Night troll?"

Malfoy looked annoyed, yet also pleased with himself. When the corners of his mouth twitched up like that, he had the tiniest of dimples in his right cheek. "Oh, don't twist your knickers. It was only a joke."

Malfoy settled in beside him, beginning to unload parchment and quills from his bag. "So will you help?"

Terry sighed. Malfoy hadn't really given him much choice in the matter. "I suppose so," he said. Then he remembered what he had been thinking about earlier and saw a way to test his theory. "But only if you can tell me what my name is."

"What, have you forgotten it?" Malfoy said carelessly, dipping his quill in ink and writing his own name loopily across the top of his parchment. "However did you manage that?"

Terry sighed again, this time in frustration. "Just tell me you know it, Malfoy."

Malfoy sniffed. "What do you take me for? An imbecile? Potter? Of course I know your name."

"So what is it?"

Now uncertainty flickered, however briefly, over Malfoy's face. "It's Boot," he said, the "t" crisp in Malfoy's suddenly curt tone.

"And my first name?"

Malfoy's mouth opened, then he paused. For a moment, Terry's heart sank, though he couldn't think why this should disappoint him. Then Malfoy grinned triumphantly. "Terence," he said. "Probably the fourth or some rot, with a godawful name like that."

Terry grinned as well, feeling a pleased flush crawl up his cheeks for no reason he could comprehend. "It's just Terry."

"All right, Boot," Malfoy replied. "Now, impart to me all of your knowledge."

And so he did. Terry knew that he was looking for trouble, hanging out with Draco Malfoy, but the trouble didn't come. At least, not right away.

At first, it was strange to be sitting there, head bent close to Malfoy's. For the first few minutes, Terry shot Draco Malfoy approximately one look every three seconds, but Malfoy acted as though this was nothing out of the ordinary, as though taking out another roll of parchment and licking his quill while sitting next to Terry Boot was something he did every day. And then, after a while, it stopped being quite so strange until it wasn't strange at all anymore, and before Terry quite realized it, it was a month into term and Malfoy was sitting quietly beside him at their usual table in the library, reading his Transfiguration book and every once in a while looking up to make snide remarks about Harry Potter's hair or parentage.


	3. All About Feelings

Looking for Trouble

Chapter 3: All About Feelings

And one month into term, Terry was somewhat surprised to realize that not only was he getting used to Malfoy's presence, but he was also beginning to like it. He actually enjoyed Malfoy's company, his small under-the-breath comments and the way his eyebrows furrowed when he concentrated.

But it was different, because they were not friends, not really. Malfoy handed him a Support Cedric Diggory badge in the corridor midway through November and Terry fingered it gently before slipping it into an inside pocket. But other than that, they didn't speak outside the library, where Terry coached Malfoy on his incantations and edited his essays, sighing whenever he came across an elementary spelling mistake.

And it was different, too, because Terry had never felt like _this _about any of his friends. He'd never noticed the way their fingers gripped a quill, or how the dim lamplight in the library picked out the golden hairs on their arms. He'd never felt the urge, with Anthony or Michael or Kevin, to grip them by the shoulders and never let go, to move in close to them and lower his mouth to theirs.

When Draco poked him playfully in the chest or tickled his nose with his quill on late nights when they were both sleep deprived, when Draco rested his head on Terry's shoulder on even later nights when they stayed up till 4 am studying star patterns in the Astronomy Tower, Terry's heart thudded to a rhythm he had never felt before. Not even last year when Susan Bones kissed him in an alcove of Ravenclaw Tower, then blushed and didn't speak to him for three weeks afterward.

And Terry soon realized that he didn't want to be friends with Draco anyway, because it wouldn't have been enough.

So it was better this way, just being study partners, easier, because sometimes Draco did things that might have hurt Terry if they had been any more than that. For one thing, there was the scoffing. Draco was often scoffing at him, for anything from accidentally splattering ink across his knuckle as Terry leaned over Draco's homework to his apparently unsatisfactory answers to questions like: "So what _do _Ravenclaws do for fun, anyway?"

At first, Terry had been a bit miffed, friendship or not, but soon Terry had learned not to take the scoffing too seriously, especially when Draco rested his hand casually on his arm afterward, or leaned over his shoulder, his pointy nose practically brushing Terry's cheek as he peeked at his homework as had become a habit.

More potentially painful was the way Draco clammed up about anything even bordering on the personal. Even innocuous inquiries could be dangerous, as Terry learned on their third day of studying together, when he asked, "Why start now? I mean, if you've never wanted tutoring before, why wait till you're already halfway through Hogwarts?"

Draco's face had immediately closed off and he had turned his face away from Terry, instead looking out the library window with a strange twist to his lips. "There were concerns that my marks weren't as high as expected" was all he said and Terry decided not to press the subject.

This way, being study partners, Terry could tell himself that it didn't matter, that he wasn't important enough to Draco to be hurt by him and that that was the best way to keep things.

So it was better this way, until two weeks before Christmas when Draco turned to him and said, "So Boot, which extremely unfortunate young lady will be accompanying you to the Yule Ball?"

And Terry found he could not open his mouth, because if he did, he was afraid all that would come out was, "You, you, you. I want to go to the Yule Ball with you." Eventually, he managed to stammer out something about thinking he'd just go stag, and then asked, "What about you?"

Draco sighed. "Well, I think I'm going to have to ask Pansy," he said. "She keeps dropping hints. She really is insufferable."

"So why would you go with her?"

Draco looked thoughtful. "Well, she is one of my closest friends." Then his thoughtful expression deepened into something Terry couldn't define and he looked down at the table and fiddled with a piece of parchment. Then Draco looked up at Terry through his eyelashes and Terry couldn't help catching his breath.

"Do you think I should?" Draco asked, and Terry came back to reality.

"Yeah, sure, mate," he said, punching Draco lightly in the shoulder. "Of course you should."

Draco stiffened slightly. "Mate?" he asked, and Terry felt sure that he had ruined things somehow, gone too far. But Draco punched him back and said, "Yes, I rather like that. Mate."

Yet he looked sad after that and kept shooting glances at Terry and wouldn't answer when Terry asked him what was the matter, and so Terry was sure that he had said something wrong after all.

They didn't talk about the Yule Ball again, and things seemed to go back to normal after a while, but now it was both better and worse. Because they were mates now, and that meant Draco sometimes slapped him on the back in corridors and sat next to him in Defense Against the Dark Arts and dropped down on the bench beside him at dinner to whisper his latest theory about how Hagrid was trying to kill him.

And Terry laughed and bit his lip and lay in bed at night with his feelings tumultuous in his chest and had to keep reminding himself that it was never going to happen.


	4. Preparations and a Sickly Vampire

Looking for Trouble

Chapter 4: Preparations

On the night of the Yule Ball, at twenty minutes to eight, Michael poked his head into the fourth year dorm and said, "Draco Malfoy is outside and he says he wants to speak to you." And Terry gave up trying to make his curly brown hair do anything but flop into his eyes and followed Michael through the common room.

Michael was giving him weird looks and Terry said, "What?" and Michael said, "So are you and Malfoy like _friends_ now or something?" and Terry said, "Guess so" and tried to ignore the sinking in his stomach.

Draco was standing outside by the statue. He looked on the point of hysteria.

"What's up?" Terry asked, and was almost sorry he had.

"I can't get my stupid collar to flatten," Draco said, tugging on it desperately. "And Crabbe and Goyle are no help and Nott is in his room doing God knows what, probably trying to blow up the school, and Blaise just keeps laughing at me!"

Terry took a good look at Draco's collar for the first time and saw the stiff black velvet sticking straight up, past Draco's neck and brushing his chin.

He couldn't help but laugh. "You look ridiculous."

Draco was still tugging on his collar with a tortured expression. "I look like a particularly sickly vampire! You have to help me."

So Terry took a step forward and grabbed the collar with both hands, trying to push it down, but this turned out to be a mistake, because as soon as he touched the collar the backs of his fingers brushed Draco's neck and the only things in his head were visions of gripping even more tightly and pushing Draco back against the wall and having a good snog then and there.

He pushed himself away and stood against the wall himself, breathing hard and with his fingers trembling.

"What's the matter?" Draco asked, his expression confused and his voice quiet through the rush of blood in Terry's ears. Draco took a step closer to him and reached a hand up to Terry's forehead. "You feel hot. Are you all right?"

His voice was full of so much concern and Terry found himself grasping at Draco's other hand, pulling it up and tucking it under his chin, and he was still trembling and maybe he was a bit feverish after all.

He dropped Draco's hand, but Draco kept his other up to Terry's forehead, the look of concern still in his eyes.

Terry stepped away. "I'm fine," he said quickly. "Just a bit tired."

Draco looked suspicious, and something else Terry couldn't quite put his finger on (unless perhaps it was disappointed?) but he said, "Whatever you say, mate," and then took a couple steps away. "See you at the ball, I guess."


	5. At the Yule Ball

Looking for Trouble

Chapter 5: At the Yule Ball

Terry felt sick, dizzy, and like his ears were churning his blood around so it entered his brain thick and sluggish. Going to the Ball did not help. He didn't feel like eating or dancing, and he especially did not feel like seeing Pansy Parkinson hanging on Draco's arm and reaching out to wrap her hand around his neck and press her body against his.

By 10 o'clock, Terry was more than ready to leave, and he would have if Draco hadn't dropped down beside him at that moment, breathless and tugging at his collar once more.

"You have to help me," he gasped, and started crawling underneath the table.

Terry grinned, lifting the tablecloth to peer at Draco, huddled between the table legs. His night had just gotten immeasurably better. "And what," he inquired, "do you need me to help you with?"

Draco reached up, grabbed Terry's tie, and tugged. Already off-balance, Terry crashed off his chair and landed on all fours under the table, his face mere inches from Draco's. He coughed and sat back on his heels, bending his neck at an uncomfortable angle.

"You were making a spectacle of yourself, looking under the table like that," Draco explained, as though this were perfectly reasonable excuse for his behavior. Terry had to interlock his fingers behind his back to stop himself from grabbing Draco inappropriately and scaring him again.

"So why were you under the table, then?" Terry asked. "Causing me to make a spectacle of myself?"

Draco leaned in even closer to him, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Because of Pansy. She keeps trying to…attack me."

"Attack you?"

"She pounces and then we're halfway out to the rose gardens before I realize what's happening." He rubbed his shoulder. "That girl is surprisingly strong."

"What's in the rose gardens?" Terry asked, feeling as though he already knew the answer.

Draco shrugged. "That's where everyone is going to snog. I just saw Weasley and Potter heading that way, so it seems they've decided to give up the pretense at last." Draco laughed, but his voice caught a little bit, and in the triangle of light coming in under the tablecloth, Terry could see a few strands of blond hair and one of Draco's eyes fixed on him.

"Ah," Terry said, and then didn't know what else to say. In the light, Terry could see Draco's eyebrows furrowing the way they did when he was concentrating hard on something, determined to get a spell right.

Draco leaned even closer, scooting forward on his knees until their foreheads were almost touching. When he felt Draco's warm, butterbeer-scented breath on his cheek, Terry's stomach, which had been feeling better, began to roil and the blood whooshed through his veins, making his hands tingle where they were locked behind his back. He felt off-balance, but he didn't dare move his hands. It was then that Terry realized he had not breathed in perhaps 30 seconds, but just as he opened his mouth, he toppled forward onto Draco.

He brought his hands forward almost immediately, but this only made things worse, as they landed on Draco's thighs. Terry drew in a shuddering breath. He could hear Draco's breath in his ear, hitching slightly, and it took Terry several more seconds to realize that he hadn't moved and neither had Draco.

Terry lifted his head and met Draco's eyes, which were now wide and blinking rapidly, all hint of determination gone. Before he could recover and think himself out of it, Terry narrowed his own eyes, leaned forward half an inch, and pressed his lips to Draco's.

At first, he couldn't feel anything but the ever-present blood in his ears and the sudden warmth under the table, but then he felt the moist slide of mouth on mouth and the slight roughness of Draco's chapped lower lip.

Then Draco jerked back and there was a sharp intake of breath and Terry realized that it was his. He leaned back on his heels and removed his hands from Draco's legs.

"Sorry," was all he could think of to say, though he wasn't sorry, not really. Unless this ruined everything. Terry couldn't believe he hadn't thought of that before.

Draco wasn't looking at him, but had his eyes fixed on the dense darkness of the tablecloth over Terry's shoulder, his fingers coming up to touch his mouth. Then the darkness behind Draco shifted and light poured in. Pansy Parkinson's head was suddenly backlit, all curls and twitching nose.

"Draco!" she said, and her voice screeched against Terry's ears and he scooted back even more, the back of his head slamming painfully into a table leg. Draco's eyes immediately focused on Pansy and he dropped his hand to his lap.

"What are you doing under a table, Draco?" Pansy continued in a particularly annoying tone of voice. "I've been looking for you everywhere. It's time for the last dance." She held out her hand to Draco and only then seemed to notice Terry, distaste curling her lip. "Oh, hello, Boot."

Terry managed a nod. Draco shot him one last look and shook his head swiftly before taking Pansy's hand and letting her pull him out from under the table.

The strains of the Weird Sisters drifted through the tablecloth as Terry buried his head in his hands. He took deep breaths and tried to hold himself back from ramming his head into the table leg again, and again and again and again.


	6. Aftermath

Looking for Trouble

Chapter 6: Aftermath

Draco found him in the library the next day. Of course, if Terry was being honest with himself, he had to admit that the very reason he was in the library to begin with was in hopes that Draco would find him there. But he hadn't expected it to happen, not really. He hadn't expected Draco to approach him, rubbing his nose and looking more than a little embarrassed, and say, "Mind if I sit down?"

Terry moved his things, shrugging not because he didn't care but because his mouth didn't seem to be working properly. Draco sat on the edge of the chair, hands clenching and twisting each other on the table. Terry turned back to his Potions essay, quill scratching the same place on his parchment over and over again until there was a large hole and quite a bit of ink pooling on the table. Then a hand covered his.

"Stop that," Draco said, plucking the quill from Terry's hand and twirling it between his fingers. "Madam Pince will skin you with her bare hands." He still wasn't looking at Terry, but his mouth quirked up at the corners. "And I'd rather not bear witness to that, if it's all the same to you. I have very delicate sensibilities."

Terry laughed, his voice cracking slightly. "So…"

Draco raised an eyebrow at him and finally, finally met his eyes. "So?"

There was a challenge there, so Terry sat up straighter and said, "So last night…"

Draco shrugged, but Terry could see a blush creeping up his neck. "What about last night?"

And suddenly, looking at Draco slouching beside him, still playing with his quill and back to not looking at him, Terry decided he didn't care if he ruined things. He would ruin everything just to be back under that table last night before Pansy Parkinson barged her stupid head in.

Terry leaned forward, grabbing Draco's chin and pulling him roughly forward, then dropped a clumsy kiss on the corner of his mouth. "I fancy you, all right?" he said, sounding angrier than he felt.

Draco's eyes widened again, and then a slow smile began to grow on his face. He brought his hand up along Terry's jaw, stopping to rub lightly at his earlobe. Terry could feel a catch in his throat and the blood had taken up residence in his ears again.

"That's pretty much what I came here to tell you," Draco said fondly. "I just wanted to hear you say it first."

"You utter _prat_," Terry said, just as fondly, and moved to bring their faces together again, but Draco removed his hand from Terry's jaw and held it in front of his face.

"What now?"

"Remember what I said about Madam Pince and my delicate sensibilities," Draco said, standing up and swinging Terry's bag over his shoulder. "We'd better go someplace else. I'm afraid your studying will have to wait."

And Terry, trying to act miffed and utterly failing, followed along in his wake.

"A broom cupboard?" Terry asked incredulously.

Draco, already through the door and sprawled against the shelves in a manner that was way too suggestive to be allowed, just shrugged. "Why not?"

"And you were worried about Madam Pince's reaction? Filch will go mad. We're just asking for it if we dare trespass on his domain."

Draco raised himself languorously from his position on the shelves and began to slink (that was the only word to describe it, really) toward Terry. "Then consider this me asking for it," he said, and Terry practically leapt into the closet, slamming the door behind him.

It was immediately different than it had been last night, not the product of desperation and frustration but the slow, hot slide of Draco's tongue on his lower lip and the pressure of Draco's fingers tugging at his belt loop. Terry felt something huge and warm and fluttering filling his chest and realized that he was happier than he had been in perhaps ever. He had to break away and breathe out a sigh before the weight of the terrific flying happiness crushed him.

Draco looked at him, flushed and keeping a grip on his belt. "Everything all right?" he asked. Terry grinned, lips pulling back over his teeth, and nodded and Draco pulled him back in, hooking an elbow around his neck. Terry's hands fluttered uselessly at his sides for a moment before they grasped the sides of Draco's jumper, crumpling the fabric in his hands and holding on. Draco's teeth scraped his lip and Terry let go and slid his hands beneath the jumper, feeling Draco's concave stomach and the ribs that stuck out.

"You should eat more," Terry murmured against Draco's neck, then kept his mouth there, making tiny sucking motions. He had no idea what he was doing; he only knew that he wanted to breathe Draco in, to have all of him.

He could hear the wicked smile in Draco's voice as he said, "Perhaps that could be arranged."

But Terry barely had time to blush at the consideration of that statement before the door slammed open and rattled the shelves, knocking a mop into Terry's back and making him wonder if he'd even be alive to consider the statement when the time came.

Still, Terry thought it had been worth it, even when he turned around to see Filch, eyes popping and mouth flapping up and down, looking altogether rather like a particularly greasy fish. Worth it until now, anyway, sitting in Dumbledore's office and waiting for judgment to fall on him.


	7. Back to the Present

Looking for Trouble

Chapter 7: Back to the Present

"So that was what happened," Terry finishes.

Dumbledore leans forward, clasping his hands together. "Yes," he says seriously. "That certainly is quite a situation," and Terry cringes, but then Dumbledore continues. "So lucky that it all turned out so nicely. So many times, you think a story is going to end happily and then there's some horrific duel and someone ends up near death in the hospital wing before everything gets resolved. So refreshing that that did not happen in this particular case."

Terry stares hard at Dumbledore, wondering if the inevitable loss of his marbles has finally occurred. "So I'm not in trouble?"

"Well, you've certainly done nothing wrong," Dumbledore says.

"I haven't?" Terry asks, amazed.

"Not at all. Those broom cupboards ought to be used for something worthwhile every now and then." Terry continues to gape and Dumbledore smiles at him. "Besides," he says, and now his eyes have a sort of far-away look, "Young love is always sweetest when it's a little bit forbidden."

Then Dumbledore is silent and Terry doesn't know what to say. At last he clears his throat. "So I'm free to go, sir?"

Dumbledore claps his hands and smiles again, all traces of far-away look gone. "Oh no. You'll have to be punished, of course."

"Punished? But you've just said I didn't do anything wrong!"

"Well, yes," Dumbledore allows. "But I've got to do something or Filch will never let me hear the end of it." He looks hard at Terry for a moment, then his lips twitch. "I think—yes, that will be perfect. Tomorrow evening then, Mr. Boot, you and Mr. Malfoy will be cleaning the trophy room, supervised by myself."

"But Professor—" Terry begins to protest, but Dumbledore holds up a hand.

"Supervised by myself. Of course, I am getting rather on in years. So I may find myself accidentally enjoying a nap in my office instead."

Terry frowns. "But I still don't see why—" Dumbledore holds up another hand. But why would he make them clean, if he's said they did nothing wrong? It doesn't make sense.

"I will expect every trophy to be spotless, regardless of where I am," Dumbledore says. "Though," he continues, "these eyes aren't what they used to be either."

Terry gapes at him for approximately the six-thousandth time, starting to put it all together.

"So are you satisfied, Mr. Boot?" Dumbledore asks, and Terry thinks he detects a slight twinkle in his eye. "As they say, let the punishment fit the crime."

And Terry, thinking of Draco pouting and soaking wet and covered in bubbles, thinks Dumbledore may know what he's doing after all.

XX


End file.
